The Side of the Angels
by Emi Lillian Kitsune
Summary: "I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one second that I am one of them." One chapter for each of those Sherlock left behind as the world reacts to his death. Set after the Reichenbach Fall.
1. Molly Hooper

**Fun fact: this story was initially going to be smut. Don't worry, it isn't. I guess smut just isn't my cup of tea.**

**(But actually, I kinda really hope that John and Molly end up together. It isn't that far-fetched – in **_**The Sign of Four**_**, John marries a woman named Mary Morstan and Molly could be a nickname for Mary….)**

**And onto the story!**

Chapter One: Molly Hooper

She was the one who knew.

It should have made it easier. It really should have. She didn't have to grieve like everyone else – she could come into work without glancing around for a tall man in a black coat and then catch herself, remembering he was dead. Of course she did that anyway, looked for him despite herself. But she didn't have to grieve.

But everyone else did, and it was at least a little bit her fault. John came in the day after and asked her the same questions over and over with a dazed look on his face. She gave the same lie to each one and handed him off to Lestrade, who for his part looked awful, face grey and eyes red.

Maybe she shouldn't have grieved for Jim, the man she had gone on three dates with before she ended it. She had known ever since she saw his body, bullet wound up through the mouth, that somehow he was responsible for Sherlock's deception – and besides, he was a criminal. That was what she told herself, because why on earth was she crying over Jim when Sherlock was, to everyone else, dead? But, as much as he may have been an evil mastermind, he had been nice to her. He made her feel a bit more worthwhile even as Sherlock was stripping away her layers of self-esteem one by one. So she cried for both of them and felt terribly guilty, and then guilty for grieving when everyone else had it so much worse.

Sometimes she hated Sherlock for what he had done to everyone around him. Some nights she went over each cruel word he had ever said to her, one by one, until she had worn away the sting. But she couldn't help remembering the words that canceled everything else out: "You're wrong, you know. You do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you." And she almost, almost convinced herself that somewhere deep inside of him was a shred of what might have been a good person.

When the door of the morgue opened one morning, she spun around, half-expecting to see Sherlock striding in again, tempting and dismissive as ever. John Watson raised his hand at her in greeting and she slumped a little, righting the sealed vial of samples she had upended.

The weeks since the fall had not been kind to him. His face seemed more lined, his hair more grey. As he walked towards her, she couldn't help but notice that his limp had returned. Guilt twisted inside her again.

"Molly." He smiled tiredly at her, stopping next to the table she was working at.

"John," she returned uncertainly, trying out a smile that fell off her face almost immediately. "How… how have you been?"

"Well." He sighed and shifted his weight. "How has anyone been?" She didn't know quite what to say to that, and luckily, he continued. "But actually I've come to apologize."

"For what? You don't need to apologize."

"I came in here the day after Sherlock—" John cleared his throat. "The day after he—you know what I'm talking about. But I'm sure I was terribly rude, and upsetting. So I would like to say… sorry."

This smile lasted a little longer. "Thanks, but there's no need. Everyone's been—well, you know."

"Yes." John looked away across the lab. "I don't know if—would you like to grab lunch sometime?"

Almost certain he was joking, she turned back to her microscope. "I'm free at one if you'd like."

"That works great, yeah. The little café across the park?"

She looked up, startled. "You're serious?"

"Of course I'm serious, why wouldn't I be serious?"

This time, the smile was genuine. "See you at one, then."

"See you at one."

She watched as he walked out the door again, still limping slightly, then turned back to her samples. Her eyes fell on Sherlock's usual station, now bare and sterile, and the smile fell off her face.

Knowing should have made it easier, but seeing what this was doing to John, it really, really didn't.


	2. Detective Inspector Lestrade

Chapter Two: Greg Lestrade

He was the one who kept going.

The superintendent droned on, laying out in precise detail the nature of his apparent mistakes. Never mind that Sherlock solved every case they put in front of him; never mind that Richard Brooke—Moriarty—had been found dead by suicide on the roof. Lestrade had yet to meet anyone, even an actor, who would kill themselves for money… And yet Sherlock was still the fraud.

"Are you listening, Lestrade?"

"Yes," he lied. The large man behind the desk hmphed.

"I don't want to see anything like this happen again. Do you understand me?"

"Of course."

"Make sure you look over that Daly case—I need it back by tomorrow."

Lestrade closed the door behind him a bit harder than necessary and took a deep breath. He didn't know who he was supposed to be angry at—the superintendent, Donovan, Anderson, Moriarty, Sherlock—but he was bloody angry.

He understood why Donovan had reported him—watching an arrogant amateur waltz in and solve every impossible case with casual callousness chafed a bit. And, if he looked at it from a distance, he understood why the superintendent was being such an arse about it. But to have it end like this….

When he walked into his office, he was not entirely surprised to find John Watson waiting. Since the fall, the man had been… well, a bit lost.

"You're not cleared to be in here."

"Are you going to throw me out?" John met his eyes – they both knew that Lestrade could never bring himself to do that after what had happened.

Lestrade looked away and settled into his chair with a tired sigh.

"What do you want, then?"

"Maybe I just stopped by for a chat."

Lestrade laughed once, skeptically. "No, really."

"What have you been working on lately?" John asked, too casual.

"A few cases," Lestrade said, beginning to see where this was going. "Nothing tricky."

"Anything you need help on?"

"John." Lestrade forced himself to say it. "You're not Sherlock."

John looked away for a long moment.

"I know I'm not," he said at last. "But – God, Lestrade, I'm going mad without anything to do."

"You've got that job at the hospital—"

"You know what I mean."

This was going to be difficult. "I just got back from a meeting with the superintendent. It's my job on the line if anything like what happened with Sherlock ever happens again."

John nodded, slowly and obviously reluctantly, and stood.

"Right. Well, thanks, Lestrade."

"John—" The man paused for a moment, hand on the door. "If you ever want to go out for a pint—"

"Thanks. I'll let you know."

The door shut behind him and Lestrade sank back into his chair. Somehow, he didn't think further contact with John would be forthcoming. Shaking his head, he began to work his way through the pile of cases waiting for him and did his best to put consulting detectives and army doctors out of his mind. What was done was done, and he had a job to do.

**Don't forget to review!**


	3. Sergeant Donovan

**Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed! Your comments are extensively appreciated and suggestions are really helpful.**

**Enjoy!**

Chapter Three: Sergeant Donovan

**(Note: if you've read my other fanfic, **_**Trust**_**, ignore it for now – that Donovan exists in a different universe than this one. If you don't know what I'm talking about, don't worry about… Though feel free to read **_**Trust **_**if you would like to!)**

She was the one who wouldn't change her mind.

Bloody Sherlock Holmes, self-proclaimed consulting detective. Sherlock Holmes, who obviously didn't give a damn about the victims in any of his precious cases, to whom the law was nothing more than a mildly irritating, easily-ignored list of rules. Sherlock Holmes, who humiliated her in front of her team, who drove Anderson off the wall, who nearly put Lestrade out of a job.

She refused to feel guilty – he had brought it on himself. He was a psychopath, and heartless besides, and he ripped anyone who got too close to him apart.

_Like that one_, she thought, glancing up as John Watson passed the window of her office. Sherlock Holmes had drawn him in and now look what had happened. _Don't speak ill of the dead_, part of her chided.

Why shouldn't she? Sherlock had certainly never shown anyone the same courtesy, and she had no doubt that if she was dead instead, he wouldn't spend any time mourning—or even thinking about it.

She didn't feel guilty, but she felt a bit sad, despite herself. She wasn't heartless, after all…seeing John wandering around the station like he did was enough to make anyone miserable, and on top of Lestrade's long silences and Molly's red eyes, the place was about as cheerful as a tomb.

She understood that, she really did. She understood grieving for a friend. But she refused to let this change anything, because even if he was dead, he was still everything he'd been while alive. One jump from the roof wasn't enough to erase everything he'd done.

There was a knock at the door.

"Come in," she called, swiveling to face whoever it was as the door opened. As Lestrade entered, she couldn't help but notice the bags under his eyes.

"Can I have a word?"

"Of course."

He sank into the opposite chair and looked at her for a moment, hands in his lap. She waited, doing her best to keep any snarky thoughts off of her face, while he collected his thoughts.

"Do you have anything for John Watson?" he said at last, bluntly.

She crossed her arms. "What sort of thing?"

"I don't know, something around the Yard, a… job or something—"

"What, a case?" Uncharacteristically, he wasn't looking at her, but out the window over her shoulder. "You know we can't do that."

"I know," he agreed, although he looked far from convinced.

"You almost lost your job over this, Lestrade."

Now he did look at her. "No, I almost lost my job because you started talking about Sherlock Holmes being a kidnapper without any conclusive evidence." He looked away and took a deep breath. "He's falling apart, and if there's anything we have that we can give him to work on…"

"He isn't Sherlock Holmes," she said, ignoring the accusation in his voice. This was ridiculous. "People die every day, Lestrade. John Watson's going to have to pull himself together like everyone else."

He rubbed his face and looked at her.

"This is different, you know it is."

"It's different because you want it to be. How many suicides have you seen working here? Fifty? A hundred?"

"We don't know it was a suicide—"

"He jumped off a building, you can't get much more suicidal than that. We have plenty of evidence."

Lestrade shook his head. "Not enough."

She looked at him, eyebrows raised. "So that's what this is? You can't accept the conclusion everything points to, so you're searching for some—what, some buried clue? This isn't a mystery novel, Lestrade."

"I know that!" he exploded. Taking a deep breath, he visibly calmed himself. "I'm just trying to help a friend."

"Maybe he doesn't need your help," she suggested, swiveling her chair back to face the desk.

"Sally—"

"I don't care what you do, but keep your priorities straight."

She heard him stand, then the click of the door closing, and slumped in her chair. She was just doing her job—taking care of all the people she was responsible for. They couldn't start bringing in every stray who lost a loved one.

She rubbed her temples and glanced at the clock briefly before turning back to her computer and pushing Lestrade from her mind.

X

It wasn't a particularly nice pub, but it was noisy and indifferent—good enough for ending an upsetting week. Anderson was off somewhere, probably having a covert smoke in the alley, and she was idly turning her drink between her hands, thinking about nothing in particular.

Looking up, her eyes fell on a lone figure across the room, untouched drink in front of him. It was clear that he wasn't waiting for anyone—and who, after all, did John Watson have to wait for?

She had no idea why she stood up – maybe she'd had a few too many – but her feet carried her to his table. He looked up as she approached.

"Donovan," he said somewhat coldly.

"Waiting for someone?" she asked.

He laughed bitterly.

"Come have a drink with us," she offered, mentally kicking herself. This…pity, or whatever it was, was getting out of hand.

"I was actually just leaving," he replied, standing and pulling on his coat. He tossed a few pounds on the table and was out the door before she could think of anything to say.

She did her best to shrug—it wasn't her business. Anderson and a more few drinks dismissed it from her mind for the night, and it wasn't until the next morning, thinking about nothing in particular with a cup of coffee in her hands, that she her mind turned once again to the army doctor without his detective.

Not that she gave a damn about Sherlock Holmes.


	4. Mrs Hudson

Chapter Five: Mrs. Hudson

She was the one who put things away.

She didn't blame John for staying away, but it did leave rather a lot of work for her. The science equipment, the macabre knick-knacks and the neatly folded clothes, the… well, the rather gruesome contents of the fridge—it all had to go. Slowly, methodically, she put it all away into boxes, stopping occasionally for a fortifying cup of tea. The gunshot holes in the wall wouldn't come out, of course, but she emptied the flat of everything else.

She broke a glass microscope slide one morning. Looking at the pieces glinting on the floor, she sat down at the table and cried.

When she came across the laptop, she didn't open it, but placed it gingerly in a box full of blankets and taped the box shut. The flat was full of crates now, and by all rights the memories should have packed up and gone—but they were stubborn.

Her boys. They were always getting into trouble, weren't they? Trouble they made for themselves, but trouble all the same, always causing her distress, leaving body parts in the fridge and shouting at all hours. She loved them like grandchildren, even Sherlock, who wasn't always easy to love. But he was a good man, somewhere deep in his funny old head—the sort of man who threw men out of windows or put them in jail if they crossed the line.

It was enough to break your heart.

She didn't believe a word of it, the rubbish the papers threw about. The trashy magazines were all good fun, but no sensible person believed a word of it. And if she ever got her hands on this Kitty Riley character—well. That young tart might learn a thing or two.

It was sad, though, really it was. She had gotten accustomed to the shouting and the running up and down the stairs—the building was too quiet without it.

The violin was the one thing she couldn't bring herself to touch. It seemed so fragile, sitting precariously on the windowsill, the wood glowing softly in the light. It would be almost sacrilegious for her to pick it up—she didn't know the first thing about violins, and it would be a shame for her to handle the same instrument Sherlock had always held so precisely.

She hadn't let the flat out again, though John had been gone for months now. It wasn't just the boxes that cluttered the floor or the violin on the windowsill or the bullet holes in the wall. A part of her thought that perhaps, if she was patient, one of her boys would come back.

A check had arrived every month since Sherlock's death, paying the rent and a bit extra. It wasn't John, and she couldn't trace it—but Sherlock had made a few allies, here and there. Maybe one of them wanted to pay their respects. She didn't want to bother the police about it when someone was being so kind and clearly wanted to remain anonymous.

Sometimes she woke in the middle of the night and could swear she heard a violin, the sound muffled through the floor. But when she opened the flat, it was empty as usual, and the violin was sitting on the windowsill where it had always been.

When she slipped and hurt her hip coming into the flat one morning, her first thought was to call out for Sherlock or John. Their names were already on her lips when she remembered, closing her eyes for a moment before fishing her phone out of her pocket instead. The hospital was lonely, although Molly—that sweet, tactless girl who had always been a bit too keen on Sherlock—visited once. She could've called John, she supposed, but it seemed like too much bother to put him through when he was already so busy.

Checking out, she found that someone had paid her hospital bill. The staff said whoever it was had paid through the mail, without a return address.

Christmas came around, as it always did. Surrounded by greenery, lights, snow, and general festivity, the building seemed even emptier than usual. Kettle boiling, Mrs. Hudson was about to put her feet up when there was a ring at the door. Molly and John were waiting outside, ruddy from the cold and bearing packages.

In silent agreement, they kept their impromptu party in Mrs. Hudson's flat. Sherlock's absence hung heavy on the room, but it was merry despite that. Molly nearly let slip that Mrs. Hudson had been in the hospital, luckily stopping mid-sentence at Mrs. Hudson's pointed glare. John was working full-time now, at a hospital across the city, but he said he and Molly met for lunch sometimes. Mrs. Hudson watched them and wondered if anything would come of it—she couldn't quite decide what she felt about the matter. Of course it would be lovely for John to be a bit less alone, and Molly was a sweet girl… but a part of her was still waiting for Sherlock to come back, and it seemed as if a part of John was too.

Molly left first, saying something about a brother to call. Mrs. Hudson excused herself to use the facilities, and when she came back her flat was empty. She made her slow way up the stairs, ignoring her hip's complaints, and found him in 221B.

It seemed suddenly, devastatingly lonely as she looked over all the boxes, furniture pushed up against the bare walls, violin sitting forlorn on the windowsill. John stood in the middle of it, looking around without touching anything.

"You haven't let it out again?" he asked, and she jumped a bit.

"No," she said carefully. "I haven't had the chance."

"I can't come back," he said, still looking away. "Not yet. I'm sorry."

"You take your time. I know you're very busy."

"I always thought he was coming back," John said, moving towards the window and looking out on the frozen street below.

"He always did such mad things."

John reached out towards the violin. An inch away, he suddenly hesitated, then let his arm drop by his side.

"Mycroft told me once that Sherlock had the brain of a scientist or a philosopher, but he chose to be a detective. He asked me what that said about his heart." John shook his head. "I still don't know."

"He liked being a mystery as much as he liked being infuriating," Mrs. Hudson replied after a moment.

"The world's only consulting detective."

John's words were spoken almost sardonically, but as they faded they seemed like a sort of homage.

Mrs. Hudson left him to his thoughts and put the kettle on, waiting for the steps to make their way down the stairs after her. She and John shared a quiet cup of tea before he left. Tomorrow she would clear out the flat properly, she decided, get rid of all the boxes and open it for tenants again.

Even as she told herself that, she knew that she wouldn't. She could put things away, but she couldn't keep herself from hoping.

**Comments, thoughts, criticism, praise? Leave a review!**


End file.
